The Grandmaster Theater
by Gwen-Van-Well
Summary: There was the odd rumour about England not liking romance films. Perhaps it was because France was the best example of romance.


This is the first time that I try to write something in English and considering that no one, besides me, had read it, it probably still has some you notice them, please make me know.

This is for you, Omegle friend. Sorry for being late. I already found you and I'm going to review you soon!

* * *

There was the odd rumour about England not liking romance films.

Perhaps it was because he pulled out an image of being bitter, which was half-truth. Sometimes it was unintentionally, sometimes not.

Perhaps it was because he wasn't exactly the first person that came to your mind when someone said "romance".

Perhaps the best reason was because France was the best example of romance, because he was everything that one could find in romance.

Either way, Englad liked romance films. In fact, he liked any film as long as it was good and worthwhile. Now, that had anything to do with the fact that he was going to watch a romance film with the Frenchman.

Pulling the tickets out of his pocket, England headed to The Grandmaster Theater. His car two streets away and France waiting for him inside of the building.

France had given him the ticket two day ago, and left no room for protests. In a few words, not dwelling on England's internal struggle about it, the other accepted said man's proposal to watch the promising film.

Great was his surprise when the young male, with a red hat and receiving the tickets, told him that the movie had already begun, his expression a mixture of compassion and mockery.

Perhaps it was the first time something like that happened to him.

Perhaps the disappointment on Britain's face was too visible.

He rejected the opportunity to get inside and watch the rest of picture; instead, he stood in the hall of the theater, dialing France's number on his mobile phone.

He didn't answer, but, after some minutes that were an eternity to England, he sent a very confusing message about being at the theater's bathroom.

A frown plastered on his face, the English nation went straight to where France waited. He was already making a speech to scold him.

At the exact minute that he walked in, a sob was audible. It didn't melt his heart. Not one bit.

"France!" He called at the only closed door, a loud knock along with it. "Care to explain what the hell you are doing here?" He continued.

The only response was another sob and a whine. At that, he started to worry. "France," he sighed in a try to relax, "what is going on?"

This time came a chuckle, and then a laugh. "I'm here, I'm here, England…" And the laugh continued.

"Open up and stop with your shite already!" Another loud knock and the door opened.

France was standing in front of him, with his eyes irritated, his hair messed and a bottle of alcohol held by his right hand.

"I see", England snorted. "So you came all the way from your place to invite me to the cinema, and then you lock yourself and get drunk in the bathroom?" He said, slightly amused. "Really, this time you have outdone yourself".

With a shake of his head, he moved aside to let France walk out of the cubicle. He did and went to see himself in the mirror. "Aren't you going to ask me why was I crying?" He was talking to the other's reflection.

"Considering your current state, I'm surprised that you can ask me such a thing".

"Oh, England", he chuckled, closing his eyes. It didn't least much, right after he finished, he took a sip of the bottle.

"Alright, you've had enough of that".

"Don't you dare to take it away from me", France spat when he saw the other preparing himself to take the object. "It's my turn today, don't you think I deserve it? You were right about what you said before. I did come just for this".

Then he turned around, his hands on the sink that was behind him. "Isn't it pathetic?" France continued. "Isn't it pathetic that I had to plan this whole thing? Ask me why I was crying".

"I'll do it. But give me the bottle first". To his surprise, the other man obeyed. "So, why were you crying?" He asked, already feeling regret for all that he was going to hear.

"For everything. For all the things that I didn't cry before, all that I should have cried". The irritation of his eyes started to turn into tears. "And… I also cry for nothing. Why shouldn't I cry without a reason?" England was staring at him with astonishment, and merely shrugged, not wanting to interrupt him nor get involved in the matter.

"I know that we cry", he continued. "We do it. But not always in the same way that I did tonight, feeling so miserable. We can't treat ourselves with it. We have our own people; we should be there for them. We can't lock ourselves in a bathroom to be crying like this". Then, he let out a deep and shaky breath. "When do we have the right to feel utterly awful? Isn't it pathetic that I had to get drunk to do this?"

England didn't answer him. He went to the sinks to empty the bottle, leaving it aside, against a wall. "I'll take you to my place; there you'll be able to cry all you want. Tomorrow, I'll be asking you a few tings". France nodded and cleaned his face with the back of the hand, the other one still at the sink to help himself to stand. England turned at him and leaned in to place a hand on his waist. "Can you walk by yourself?" He turned the Frenchman's face to have his attention. The wet eyes fixed on his. At his hand he could felt some of the remaining tears. France's cheeks were flushed, and he knew it wasn't because of the alcohol. He just knew it by looking at it.

"You are standing so close to me, England. Wouldn't it be boring without being in love?" And he moved his face closer, with the slowness that only a drunk man can manage to use; his lips puckered and eyes still open. The Englishman's hand stopped his head. Seconds passed. He wasn't sure of what to say, but he knew that he had to do it. "…Can you walk by yourself?" He repeated, feeling emptiness taking over his stomach.

It happened that France was able to walk by himself. That night they didn't watch the film. They walked to England's car and then went to his place. At three in the morning France opened his eyes lazily, turned his head and a sudden pain stabbed him in the forehead. When he squirmed in his place he noticed that he wasn't wearing his expensive shoes. He was in a warm bed and his coat wasn't there. Despite the pain, he turned to his side and saw England, sleeping over the blankets; only his shoes off. His arms were resting peacefully on his stomach.

France dragged himself closer to him, moved the other's arms aside and finally rested his head on his chest. He listened to the beat of his heart, so intimate and so soft, until he fell asleep once again. No romance film could have been compared to that.


End file.
